Just One Wisp

Just One Escapade

Nick messages me the address of an abandoned house thirty minutes away, almost the exact midpoint between my home in the high school and his place, a former office building.
"I-I don't know," Jess says. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I'll be perfectly safe if I keep my respirator on," I say, shoving some snacks and an umbrella into my backpack. My gut begs me to stay, but my fluttering heart reminds me of Nick's radiant smile.

Jess's eyes narrow beneath furrowed eyebrows.

"Jess." I roll my eyes. "I'll be fine as long as you cover for me, right?"

Hesitation, then a single nod. "Right."

I pull her into a hug. Part of me wants to believe my own words, but by the way she latches onto me, it feels more like she's sending me off to a war rather than a rendezvous.

"Okay," I sigh, rising and tossing my backpack over my shoulders. "I'll be back."

It doesn't take me long to slip outside. I just fit my respirator over my face and rush down the stairs. Once I push the door open, a wave of warm air washes over my shoulders, and then the darkness rips my eyeballs from their sockets.

Oh, no. I grab the railing for support before switching on my phone flashlight. The light illuminates a few feet of distance, but the rest is black like outer space. My feet hustle down the steps, but my knee caps rattle when my shoes hit the flat pavement too hard.

I hiss under my breath. Each movement forward sends a new chill through my bones. Even worse, my heartbeat pounds in my ears and drowns out the surroundings. The air sticks in my throat as I inhale. I hate breathing. One bad wisp of the outside could chop my guts into bloody mush.

I can't shake the thought from my head. Of squishy lungs and tissue dripping in blood, with ragged inhales squeezing the light from my eyes. Just one wisp can do it.

My feet tiptoe against the blacktop. The twittering night keeps me turning over my shoulder every few steps. Though my signature black tank top and blue jean shorts keep me cool, my backside is so vulnerable, so bare. Every little tickle of wind grazes my shoulder blades like a sharp knife. The metallic air laughs into my ears, coaxing me deeper and deeper into the empty night. It cackles on and on about how I'm walking myself to my own final resting place, my own malicious crime scene.

Every step forward means safety is one step farther away.

The minutes drag like days. My respirator could fog up completely, and I would have no idea. The humidity sticks inside my lungs and coats my shoulders. The sweat could loosen the seal of my respirator against my skin. As if on cue, the lead, nickel and chromium in the wind ruffle my tank top.

My fingers fumble out of my pockets. I wish I had a way to defend myself from this stupid wind.

A chill scratches my spine. I gasp a little and screech to a halt. The buzzing nighttime pulses into my ears even louder. The flashlight combs the street, but there's nothing. I exhale, then wait.

Still nothing.

More steps, more moving, more anticipation. As the time crawls closer and closer to ten-thirty at night, the haunting feeling jumbles with my excitement. I could throw up. I shouldn't be doing this, but it's too late to turn around.

I turn a street corner, and there it is: a little green house with a porch still intact. Light spills from the glass windows. My cold fear fades to relief. I'm here!

I nearly sprint to the porch. My hands find the rusty railing, and I knock against the weathered wood. My heartbeat slams like a hammer against my ribs. Is this what Mom felt like when she'd attend house parties with Dad during college? Did she knock on his apartment door just like this?

No one answers. I wait another minute, but nothing. My fingers jostle the knob, and the door creaks open.

I hesitate. Should I enter? I hardly have to make the decision. The wind jabs its knife against my skin again, so I rush inside and shut the door behind me.